


W=-ΔU (Potential Energy)

by Krystalicekitsu



Series: Dreams of You and I [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Community: hc_bingo, F/M, Love Confessions, M/M, Multi, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-29
Updated: 2011-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-22 23:17:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krystalicekitsu/pseuds/Krystalicekitsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter finally tells Neal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	W=-ΔU (Potential Energy)

**Author's Note:**

> for my [](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/profile)[**hc_bingo**](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/) [card](http://krystalicekitsu.livejournal.com/84630.html%20-%20cutid1) square wild card. I chose ' _rejection_ '.

  
Peter can barely stand it.

"Honey, maybe you should sit down," El says, a concerned and worried frown tugging at her lips.

But he can't. He can't sit down because that would mean- hell, he's not sure.

This has got to be the worst idea he's ever had. Worst idea anybody's ever had in the history of- of _history_.

And he's including taking on a notorious art forger/thief/con man as a CI in that list of ideas.

"El, I don't think I-," he cuts off at the knock on the door. Oh god.

El casts him a glance as he sinks into an arm chair. A pitying glance. Oh go-

"Good morning, Neal."

Oh god.

"Elizabeth. How's your day?"

"Just fine."

Peter doesn't want to move. The large hydrangea El's sister had brought over as a very late Christmas present was blooming. _There's something wrong with its leaves,_ Peter thinks.

"…. He's at the table."

"Oh."

El must have picked up on the subdued nature of Neal's short comment like Peter did. She hastens to reassure him, "You didn't do anything wrong, Neal."

Peter hears Neal hesitate, the silence heavy and tense, pregnant with the potential of motion and thought and energy before them all. A stone atop a hill, just at the apex before gravity sends it tumbling down one side or the other.

Footsteps break the heavy silence, a decision and the stone is rolling.

Oh god.

Peter fights the urge to flee or hide.

"Wine?" Elizabeth asks, bless her, as she deposits Neal at the table, continuing to the kitchen to retrieve glasses and a bottle of her guilty pleasure- a blackberry boxed wine that cost about as much as a box of paperclips but was perfectly sweet and flavored at room temperature.

Comfort wine.

Neal, eyes locked with Peter's from the moment he stepped through the entry way, doesn't bother answering, sliding down into a chair, palms pressed against the table. El brings three glasses anyway and deposits the bottle between them before she heads back to the kitchen.

The blueberry and chocolate chip muffins smell about ready.

Peter discretely wipes his palms on his thighs.

He swallows. Glances up at El as she comes up behind Neal, panicked and thrashing in water that was miles too deep to swim. _Help. Please. I can't_.

She only smiles sadly at him. _You have to do this on your own. Whatever way it goes, I can't do this for you._

He's never hated his wife before but in that moment, he's close.

When his eyes drop back to Neal's the conman's mask is up. Not to trick, and the nerves and apprehension peak around the gilded corners enough to let him know this is an out. Without knowing anything at all, Neal's prepared to give him this out, make it less awkward and stilted. Bring it back to something that might be approaching normal. Something they can control and quantify. Something familiar.

Something safe.

Peter's done with safe.

What has safe gotten him? Misunderstandings and risks that didn't have to be taken. Mistrust and secrets that, if aired, could have saved Neal more time in prison and Peter a suspension. So much _time_ wasted. And the only question he needed answered was just handed to him in verse and chorus, in beautifully simple algorithms, in symmetry and code perfect in all time.

Neal using his masks, his gifts to keep Peter safe from himself. Neal, willing to let Peter dictate how things went and giving up control of something he knew nothing about.

He's only vaguely aware of El settling herself on the island, legs crossed and beautiful behind Neal, an arm folded under her breasts as the other cradles her wine. Because this is it. El's fine with it, more than willing to allow him this, but its Peter's. Peter's choice to choose or not to choose, to put them up on the top of that hill again, to let them face the choice of falling to the side with the endless depths of black water or to tumble gently to the meadow filled with sweet grass and field flowers.

"Neal, I…"

Oh god.

"Its-"

 _I can't do this! What am I thinking?_

Neal's mask slips for a half a fraction of a second, panic covered up briefly in the millisecond it takes his eyes to drop to the table and then back up.

Peter's resolve firms. _Don't be a coward, you chicken shit. Tell. Him._

Peter clears his throat, mind involuntarily flashing on all the possible outcomes, stalling him up for half a second; Neal leaving, Neal hating him, Neal cursing him, Neal eventually using this against him, Neal _immediately_ using this against him…

Neal staying. Neal saying 'yes'.

Neal saying 'I love you too'.

He side-tracks for a moment, the delicate position of CI and handler making certain painful and constricting facts necessary to consider. "If, at any point, you want to walk out the door's open and anything you say- or I say-," his eyes flick above Neal's head and he adds, "or El says- during this conversation- we'll just pretend it never happened. None of it, clean slate."

He's not sure if he wants Neal to question that or not, to refute it or poke at the boundaries of this sudden immunity but he waits until Neal nods and then waits a second more before he continues.

"It's not something I- I mean, I just didn't think about- and then you- well, you were- I mean that you _are_ \- and I- I-," Peter huffs out a harsh breath, finishing off his wine glass in two swallows, the Morgan David tickling down the back of his throat to mingle with the butterflies eating his stomach lining.

Neal's still watching him, waiting patiently like he has all day for Peter to choke out whatever insanity's come over him, but Peter's gotten better at reading Neal's masks and this one is the one that shows cracks at the edges of his eyes and the thin skin over his jaw and- yeah, there they are.

Oh god.

He squeeze his eyes shut, at once frustrated, ashamed and irritated with himself as he's fighting down panic and he has to just admit that he wanted this- or at least come to the realization that he had to _say_ something and-

 _Cowboy up, Burke._

A harsh exhale and a half a second with the dark behind his eyelids to steel his nerves before he forces his eyes to meet Neal's and-

"I love you."

Oh god.

Did he really say that? Just- just blurt it out and-

Neal's not saying anything.

Neal's not saying anything and his face is blank. Not shocked or disgusted (that's good, right?) and he's-

But there's nothing else and Peter's lungs hurt (must remember to breathe- _breathe_ , Burke) and his wine is sitting uneasily in his stomach and-

Neal gets up, stands and Peter's fingers start tingling.

Neal heads for the door and Peter stares at Neal's untouched wine glass.

The door opens and latches in a series of one, pause, two beats and the roaring in his ears silences everything else (does Neal call for a taxi? Does he walk?) and his legs are unsteady when he gets to his feet-

 _Where? Where am I going?_

-but the grey creeping along the edge of his vision makes it hard to walk anyway, even if the numbness in his legs hadn't migrated up his arms and-

The next thing he's aware of is the view of the floor between his feet, the coffee table shoved out of the way and a cold, wet weight on the back of his neck.

There are tears in his eyes.

Neal.

Oh god.


End file.
